CaféTime was nearly empty. A faint indie track played overhead, the hum of espresso machines filling in the silence.
Wren sat near the window, one hand wrapped around a now-cold cup of coffee, the other gripping her thigh beneath the table to keep from shaking.
She was too early, but she couldn't sit still at home—not with her mind in chaos.
Then the door chimed.
A woman walked in. Her presence was immediate. Tall, composed, in a beige trench coat and dark turtleneck, she scanned the café until her eyes landed on Wren.
Something about her was...off.
She looked like she belonged in a boardroom, not a the one nursing a patient at all. Not grief-stricken or exhausted. And definitely not familiar.
The woman approached.
"Wren?" she asked, voice soft but firm.
Wren nodded slowly, rising out of reflex.
"I'm Lilian," the woman said, extending a gloved hand.
Wren hesitated, then shook it.
"I... I'm sorry. I don't recognize you." She spoke politely.
